


Expectations of difference

by sarahofcroydon



Series: Old men, modern world [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Humor, old dudes, struggles of the 21st century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 20:51:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3502355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahofcroydon/pseuds/sarahofcroydon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ukitake and Kyouraku want to hear old music from their youth. Ichigo buys them an ipod.</p><p>Another in my "old men struggle with the 21st century" set</p>
            </blockquote>





	Expectations of difference

**Author's Note:**

> I figured that if you were more than 1000 years old you'd have a very different conception of music. Anything you hear would be live, and music would be rarely divorced from performance, dance, singing, religious ritual, etc. It'd be quite a hard understanding to change...

They had been reminiscing over tea and alcohol as they often did, soon lapsing into a melancholy duologue on the problems of having a memory older than the centuries. 

Ichigo was happy to sit and listen. He knew the two old men enjoyed complaining about the complexities of modern life, and was loath to deprive them of one of their few indulgences. In fact, he rather enjoyed hearing their stories and more often then not would agree with the sentiments they expressed, feeling wistful over times past despite the fact he had barely passed sixteen years of age.

Rukia would often scoff that he was an old man living in a young person’s body because he spent more of his time in the company of the dead than of the living. Ichigo preferred to think that, if anything, it was the influence of his twin soul, old man Zangetsu that made him feel more wizened and world-weary than his peers or even his irresponsible father. 

At its simplest however Ichigo felt there was always something to be learned in the company of two ancient beings, be the lesson as precious as the names of star patterns that had shifted over time, or as esoteric as the developments in the way brassieres could be unhooked from behind with one hand. There was truly a wealth of history and insight that could be gleaned from the two men, placid and introspective in their intoxicated state, watching the sun set to the smell of incense burning and the sound of summer crickets.

This was why Ichigo wanted to return these favours of education in any way he could.

“It was not more than three hundred years ago,” Kyouraku had said, sweeping a hand clutching a sake cup in a grand gesture. “It was a beautiful, mournful song but I cannot for the life of me remember its name or engineer.”

“Do you remember who performed it?” Ukitake asked.

“Most certainly,” Came the reply, “Her hair was like a black cascade of water falling over her back, and her eyes were like twin moons in the evening light. I don’t recall her wearing many clothes, either, and I have a suspicion I was the sole member of the audience. It was truly a night to remember.”

Ichigo blushed and averted his eyes; Ukitake laughed softly and leant back on his hands. 

“And the melody?”

“Haunting. Intense. Melancholy. Now I come to recall it further, it was a song most inappropriate for the occasion.”

“Not that that would have dampened your spirit.”

“Certainly not. Long before then had I mastered the art of turning an unfortunate situation to my advantage. In fact, do you recall, there was that funeral, once…”

“The problem with living so long,” Ukitake interrupted quickly, turning to Ichigo, “Is that the mind can only retain so much information. After a while, older memories are replaced by more important ones and it becomes increasingly harder to remember the more esoteric things that once may have brought you pleasure.”

“Songs are the worst,” Kyouraku said moodily. “All I can ever recall is a snippet of melody, or a line of verse, or sometimes a title. Had I the lifespan of a living man I would be quite content to recall only the sixty years worth of songs that characterised my life. As it is, there are over two thousand years worth of songs lost to my memory that two thousand more years worth of meditation would not have me happily reconciled to leave forgotten. Each one was so dear, and yet their melodies have not been preserved. It is a damn shame.”

“He speaks as if they were all worth recalling,” Ukitake said, again to Ichigo, “I imagine nobody would have objected to saving young Byakuya’s recorded attempts at musical poetry from an open flame.”

Ichigo returned Ukitake’s infections grin, as Kyouraku snorted.

“My dear pretty boy, I would say that was the one most worthy of preservation, if only to chastise him with, sometime. Do you know what we need invented? A database of some kind, where all the songs can be recorded. Mayuri would think it a waste of time, and our Nanao a waste of resources, but I’m sure it could be arranged somehow. You can tell it the name, and hear the forgotten song again. Why did we never think of this before?”

Ichigo’s eyes widened as he realised a way that he could be of assistance, heart beating a little faster at the prospect of repaying the insights and education bestowed on him by the older men.

“Actually, there is something like that,” He spoke up, “in the human world. We’ve got… er, machines that you can carry around with you, and you can tell it the song you want to listen to, and it will play it for you on demand.”

“ _No_ ,” Came Ukitake’s exclamation, and the expression on Kyouraku’s face was one that very few people had witnessed. Ichigo supposed that there was very little that would genuinely surprise you when you were two thousand years old.

“Yeah,” He said, “I’ve got one back home. I can put some music on it for you, and lend it for a while, if you like. It’s no trouble.”

“Would you?” Ukitake’s voice cracked on his question, and he coughed politely into his hand. One cough turned quickly into a series of staccatoed wheezes and hacks, and Kyouraku sighed dramatically as he got to his feet to assist his friend.

“Too much excitement for one day,” He said, thumping Ukitake on the back and withdrawing from his sleeve a surprisingly large wad of tissues. He turned to Ichigo, the bright look in his eyes returning.

“Still though, Kurosaki, bring this machine, would you? Could you make it sing with the music of the courts? Imagine listening to music when you wanted it, and you alone!”

Ukitake coughed and hacked, and made a word that sounded oddly like “Enka!”

“Oh, yes,” Kyouraku added, “That too. But the sounds of the old courts, the singing and dancing, to be there again... oh, and the modern songs, imayo! They would have been popular, what... nine hundred years ago, give or take fifty...”

“Er, yeah,” Ichigo said, suddenly regretting his offer, and getting to his feet. “I’ll see what I can find for you.”

“Thankyou, Kurosaki-kun!” Ukitake raised a cheery hand in farewell before bringing it to his mouth and spitting into it copious amounts of blood. Kyouraku beamed at Ichigo as he made a hasty retreat, thumping Ukitake’s back all the while.

“Juuishirou likes the shamisen! And some jazz! Don’t forget the jazz!”

 

Hollows, homework, chores... all of these came and went with the weeks and it was a while before Ichigo was able to find out what had become of his gift of an ipod. He'd spent an embarrassing hour at Book-Off being cooed at by an older saleslady impressed with his interest in classical music, and another frustrating hour in front of his computer attempting to rip the music off his newly purchased old CDs. He'd gone to an amount of trouble in his quest to make the old men happy, so he felt justifiably disappointed when he discovered the ipod being used to prop up the wobbly leg of Ukitake's writing table.

"Oh, that," Ukitake said with a kind smile that Ichigo felt was nowhere near as chagrined as it should have been. 

"You're very kind but I'm afraid your machine doesn't work, Kurosaki-kun. It keeps playing the same songs over and over again."

Ichigo stared. "That's... sort of the point. They're recordings, so you hear the recording of the song every time you play it. Are you sure you listened through the whole playlist? The uh... all of them? All the songs, not just one?"

"Oh yes," Ukitake said dismissively, "But they were the same every time. Would you not wish to hear a new performance of the same piece? There was a beautiful songstress who performed one winter, perhaps two hundred years ago. Each night the same song, but her mood, her disposition would take the piece in a new direction. No two versions were ever the same. Surely it would be dull, otherwise?"

He shifted in his seat. "Also, there were no dancers."

Ichigo found himself at a complete loss. "Dancers?"

"Or actors. There was no performance, just the music. I'm afraid it's very much broken, you can't be reimbursed for your purchase, can you?"

Only then did Ukitake glance towards the scuffed and broken ipod with a vaguely guilty expression.

"How could there be dancers?!"  
Ichigo felt he could only turn his irritation towards himself; he clearly hadn't explained things properly. "It's a recording machine... for sound. It takes down the... sound... that happens in that moment, and then replays it back to you. Only that version of the sound, only that time in history... it can't produce... new versions of the sound. Or people. Or dancers!! Like... how would it even do that?"

"I had expected it to produce dancers," Ukitake said lamely. "Otherwise there is little point, is there not? For what is music without a performance?"

Ichigo wanted to tear his hair out in frustration.

"Never mind," Ukitake said with a hopeful smile, sensing his young charge's inner turmoil. "It works very well for its current purpose, it brings my table to just the right height and for that you have my thanks. I must say, for all of its innovations, the modern world does baffle me sometimes in its apparent backwardness."

Ukitake noticed Ichigo struggling to keep his mouth shut, and laughed gently.

"I imagine you'll be informing me next that there exists a machine that could produce singers and dancers at a person's whim. Don't concern yourself, Kurosaki-kun... if it only records one moment in time, I simply cannot imagine the point. Recording the one performance and watching it over and over again? It must be an exercise in utter frustration, if you ask me."

With the latter statement Ichigo could agree.


End file.
